Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Saturday, November 1, 2014

My self-imposed exile is over.

My self-imposed exile from social media is over. Just under a month of avoiding responsibilities of Tweets and web logs, tonight I have a rare moment, a rare hour, to pause. To look at my handwriting form on the paper. Watch the ebb and flow of an idea form out of scripted letters.

That is— not to imply the weeks have formed a deserted terrain, a dry landscape of silence. However. Time has been scant for long, in depth conversations with myself. Just a small minute here. A brief minute there. Too many hinderances emerged into the daily schedule of things. Corrections or clarifications. Maybe if I were a hardcore insomniac hours would appear more readily, moments of. Isolated freedom for finalizing a formal essay or two—
sometimes organization is a distraction. sometimes it is otherwise. sometimes organization is a distraction.
sometimes it is otherwise.
sometimes—
Idea: perhaps back to sonnets or ghazals? Five pornographies. Dry commentaries of the scripting of blue movies. Various decades, various role play— frank. Painfully honest. Five rooms. Five couples. Tangled scenes of various lives. As an abstraction by Picasso. Cubist impressions of two people. Their warm room. Disordered sheets. Rumpled clothing. Unkempt hair. Uneasy breath.

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